Black Gem
by lash
Summary: Voldemort has dinner with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa muses on how it all goes horribly wrong.


Black Gem

I sit watching him, now. His face is in its usual composed mask of ice. Only in the way he nervously twists the hem of his sleeve into a tight ball of creases do I see his distress. Aside from this singular, nearly miniscule flaw, he is the picture of perfect tranquility; he is the picture of someone with no blood on his conscience. 

I want to kill him. 

I _really_ want to kill him. It is times like these when I wish I could give in to my basest, most primal instincts and tear into his flesh with my teeth. Times like these, and I wish I could just bury my teeth into his tender skin and spray his blood across my hair, my face, and my imported, designer robes. Five thousand galleon crème carpets be damned. He deserves it for what he's done. And no, I'm not talking about what he's done to those filthy, disgusting Mudbloods. They really didn't deserve to live; and yes, I too thought their screams were a sweet symphony to behold. I have as little conscience as he does in that respect. 

But damnit, Lucius, not my baby! 

My baby, my poor, beautiful baby boy… I swore he was a girl when I first laid eyes on him, he was so heartbreakingly exquisite. Naturally, I prayed for a boy, and I didn't worry in the least when I found that my angelic daughter was now my cherubic son. I didn't worry about other children teasing him because I knew exactly what Lucius would do to him. That is, make him powerful, make him ruthless, show him the ropes, in a way. 

Still, I can't believe what has happened in my sitting room. 

After dinner, we all joined around for tea and music in the grand lounge. A fire was blazing in the hearth before we had arrived; the room was aglow with amber and red and warmth circulated in search of contact as the blood in my veins. Natalie was at her place at the piano; Geoffrey stood beside it with a violin, wondering which would be our poison for the evening. The table was set with tea, biscuits, and cakes to our liking. We sat- Lucius, Voldemort, and me. 

Then entered Draco. 

He was adorably unruly, as he always is when he returns from the club he and his friends attend. Often, they go there in order to have lunch and get it some Quidditch or play billiards. They gamble, I think, but I don't say anything to him. It's none of my business what he chooses to do with his allowance; and in that respect, he's just like his father. He doesn't approve of people asking too many questions; it borders on invading his privacy. That's something I can respect. 

I am a Malfoy, after all. 

Up until this night, I was proud to say that I was a Malfoy. After this night, though I'll never let anyone know otherwise, I'll never feel that way again. Malfoy's are strong, powerful, vicious. 

I just didn't know how much, it seems. 

When Draco entered, disorderly, yet still managing to be breathtakingly beautiful, it happened. Tom, (Voldemort, you're aware, I'm sure), was fascinated. He hadn't seen Draco since his first birthday; he was amazed at how he'd "changed," though it seemed quite normal to me. 

Of course, I wasn't thinking of… 

Well, he… he attempted on his own, but Draco rejected him. Draco is very judicious and very stubborn. He's also very mean, vindictive, sarcastic, and superior. I'm well aware that I said he _is_ superior than that he _acts_ superior; that is because he is. He's ambitious, powerful, intelligent, relentless, and ruthless. 

It only served to intrigue Tom more. 

Draco moved away from him; closer to Lucius, I remember. He was sneering; he was disgusted, that I could see clearly. Lucius could see it, too; he felt it as much as Draco or I. It was in the way he sneered at Voldemort with unease, the way he attempted to put his foot down. 

It's a wonder how Lucius hasn't built up enough resistance to Imperius by now. 

He handed him over to him, ignoring the way his son kicked and punched him. Limbs flailed wildly, and with that much at stake, he still couldn't even fight it off. He couldn't stop it, not even when I tried to stop him. He only struck me down and continued his task. How, I wonder? Maybe he didn't want to, after all. 

Draco bedding the Dark Lord would certainly get him back on Voldemort's good side. 

God, I really don't know how we're going to do this. How are we ever going to look our son in the eye when he finally comes down to breakfast? We better find a way soon, because I hear his footfalls in the hall. They stop. I know he's hesitating, trying to gain his composure. 

He doesn't speak as he enters. 

My eyes flick to Lucius. Finally he looks tormented. He all but rips the hem of his sleeve with a particularly vicious tug. His face is screwed up in distress and he finally realizes the implications of last night. Finally, he understands what he did in picking him up and handing him over to Voldemort as he kicked and punched and pleaded. He's hurting, now. 

Good. 

Let him know how I felt when he struck me down for trying to protect my son. Let him know how I felt when he bound me in our room; let him know my pain as I tried so hard to ignore the sounds coming from across the hall and his whispered pleas for me to go to sleep. Let me know I how I feel sitting across from my son, knowing what he had to go through and not knowing how to make it better. 

Let him know how Draco felt. 

Voldemort enters now. His black robes swish about him. His skin has a grayish tint, and reminds me of rubber; his cracked, crimson eyes are narrowed into tiny slits. He's appallingly tall; no one should have the right to be that damned tall. 

Or that damned ugly. 

There's an extra pep in his step today, but it's probably just my imagination. He seats himself next to Draco. My eyes are drawn to his hand as it capture's my son's. Draco doesn't like it in the least, but _he_ doesn't care, does he? I want to do something, but I know that if I tried, Lucius would have something to say about it. 

I hate feeling so helpless. 

I've never been so helpless in my entire life. I've never felt as if there was something that could beat me. I'm a Malfoy, damnit! This isn't supposed to happen. Isn't the world supposed to bend to my will like it has done for quite some time? 

You forget that your Master's back. 

But he's not my master. I won't bow down to him; I won't hand my son over to him; I'll find a way to fight it- to change it. If he thinks he'll get away with crossing me, with hurting my Draco the way he has, he's got another thought coming. I'm still a Malfoy, damnit. Even if I don't like what that may mean. 

I know what it does do.

I'll find away to rip out his eyes for ever glancing his way; I'll find a way to break and shred his fingers until they're just bloody, numb stumps because he had the audacity to touch him; I'll find a way give him lava to drink for ever tasting him. I'll stop his nose with dynamite for smelling him; I'll melt his lips like steel for kissing him. I'll… I'll destroy him for loving him in a way that he shouldn't. 

I'll break him for loving my son. 

He shouldn't be holding his hand the way he is. He shouldn't be casting him sly glances from the corner of his eyes. He shouldn't be looking at him that way. He shouldn't have done the things that he did! Not with my son…

Draco tries so desperately to ignore it. 

He can't, I know that. He can't, just like I can't. Slim, gentle hands nearly shake as he reaches for his goblet. Soft eyelids flutter, creating a dark shadow under and on his eyes. Breaths are audible and sometimes ragged- sometimes gasps. And I want to tell him. I can't, now, but it doesn't quiet my urge. 

__

I'm so sorry. 


End file.
